Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 18
18(1):
The office curtains fluttered slightly as intense sunlight streamed through, casting a white glow across the floor.
Song Qingre stood too close, blocking the light. Her breath brushed Yan Qingqiu’s cheeks like the phantom touch of a kiss. Her fingertips traced the small protrusion at the nape of Yan Qingqiu’s neck. “Want to…?”
A simple question, yet dripping with implication.
Yan Qingqiu’s mouth said, “No…”
Her heart screamed: Yes.
Song Qingre pressed her knee against Yan Qingqiu’s chair, leaning closer until her chin rested on Yan Qingqiu’s shoulder.
“So strange… Qingqiu’s clearly an alpha, but you smell so sweet.”
No.
Yan Qingqiu shoved at Song Qingre’s shoulders, but her strength dissolved like fists against cotton. Are alphas this strong?
Footsteps approached outside. Yan Qingqiu nearly cried for help, but the door was locked tight. After a few failed attempts, knocking resumed.
“Boss? Are you there?”
Oh, I’m here alright.
Yan Qingqiu pinched Song Qingre’s collarbone.
“Keep this up and I’ll strangle you.”
Song Qingre remained unfazed.
Sheng Huajian’s voice persisted outside. “Two contracts need reviewing. Are you available?”
Yan Qingqiu’s face burned crimson. She pushed repeatedly, even punching Song Qingre’s shoulders, but the alpha clung like a panther to its prey.
Finally, Yan Qingqiu braced a foot against the desk, sending the chair rolling backward. Freedom.
Gasping, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Song Qingre straightened leisurely, her wrinkled blouse the only evidence of their struggle. That odd smile returned.
Yan Qingqiu curled inward, quickly scanning Song Qingre’s hands—the finger that had touched her lips was damp, but the one that grazed her gland remained dry.
Thank god. She nearly wept with relief.
The agony of restraint.
Song Qingre wiped her middle finger with a tissue. “What’s on your mind?”
Before Yan Qingqiu could process, that velvet voice continued, “Want another round?”
“No!” Yan Qingqiu scrambled off the chair, putting maximum distance between them. The relentless knocking mirrored her pounding heart.
Song Qingre discarded the tissue, watching her.
“You—your technique sucks. Hurt like hell. Never again.” Yan Qingqiu preemptively struck, turning blame into armor.
Song Qingre’s eyes narrowed. “That bad?” She stepped closer, hands in pockets. “You seemed… responsive earlier.”
Yan Qingqiu wheeled the chair farther away. “Pfft. Reverse our roles and you’d be squirming too.”
Her cheeks burned hotter.
Fortunately, her second-stage differentiation only caused glandular swelling—for now. Another week, and she’d flood Song Qingre’s fingertips like a broken dam.
Her mouth lied, but her body knew better.
“Really felt nothing?” Song Qingre pressed.
“Just pain.”
“Impressive endurance.” Song Qingre chuckled.
Yan Qingqiu lifted her chin. “Not endurance. Just a disciplined alpha. Your cheap tricks won’t work.”
Song Qingre turned, unfastening her collar to reveal the smooth column of her neck. “Test mine then. See if I react…”
The invitation hung in the air. Yan Qingqiu’s curiosity warred with self-preservation.
Alpha and omega glands looked identical—alphas’ slightly larger, omegas’ more delicate. But exceptions existed: some “alphas” sported glands smaller than omegas’. Pathetic.
Her own gland hadn’t betrayed her. At worst, she was an underwhelming alpha!
“No?” Song Qingre prompted.
Yan Qingqiu shook her head firmly, while her resolve cracked. What does Song Qingre’s gland look like?
The moment passed. Song Qingre refastened her collar.
Having commandeered the office chair, Yan Qingqiu watched Song Qingre settle on the gray sofa with files. After a while, the knocking resumed. Song Qingre glanced up as if ensuring her captive wouldn’t flee.
Their eyes met. Suddenly, Song Qingre stood.
Yan Qingqiu recoiled, tiptoeing against the wall. “S-stay back!”
Song Qingre moved to the door. “What was that?”
Flustered, Yan Qingqiu pressed her forehead to the wall, pretending to admire the view. So lame.
The citrus scent intensified, paralyzing her. Meanwhile, Sheng Huajian entered, oblivious to the pheromones, and began discussing contracts.
“Client Zhang wants three paintings at original prices despite the auction markup.”
“Contract stipulates 30% penalty for breach.” Song Qingre’s tone was ice.
“He’s stalling, knowing we can’t resell during exclusivity.”
Art’s value lay in scarcity, daily sales would cheapen it to cabbage status.
Yan Qingqiu eavesdropped, biting her tongue to avoid commentary.
Song Qingre tapped the clauses. “Leak his withdrawal to the media. Use the exposure to fund a public legal notice. He’ll crawl back.”
“And the paintings?”
“After this? Never selling to him again.”
Cool professionalism replaced earlier flirtation. Yan Qingqiu marveled at the whiplash.
The studio’s operations fascinated her—beyond canvases, Song Qingre designed fashion shows, theater sets, even film scenes. A polymath with formidable connections.
Creeping along the wall, Yan Qingqiu inventoried the office. Song Qingre signed documents, her pen-wielding fingers stirring improper thoughts.
“I’m taking office items as debt payment,” Yan Qingqiu announced.
Song Qingre set down the pen. “Take what you like.”
Yan Qingqiu produced her notebook, appraising everything from desk to artwork, cross-referencing prices on her phone.
When an assistant brought tea, she hovered near Song Qingre, eyeing the pen. The moment signatures concluded, she snatched it, examining the brand before logging it.
“How much so far?” Song Qingre asked.
Yan Qingqiu pocketed the notebook. “None of your business.”
“Everything here’s worthless replicas…” Song Qingre lied smoothly. “Just take them.”
The assistant gaped. Worthless? That antique vase alone costs a million!
Song Qingre’s gaze never left Yan Qingqiu, warm with amusement.
Seated in the stolen chair, Yan Qingqiu discreetly slashed a zero from each logged price.
So poor? Not even 100k yuan total?
Guilt nagged at her. How can I confiscate everything?
Debt collection is suffering.
Song Qingre tapped a blue folder, offering the pen. “Deduct its value yourself.”
Yan Qingqiu claimed her long-coveted prize.
By noon, employees dispersed for lunch. The studio had relocated near an upscale restaurant.
“Hungry? My treat,” Song Qingre offered.
Yan Qingqiu’s stomach growled, but fear of further seduction gave pause.
Song Qingre smirked. “Scared of me? After earlier—”
“Hardly!” Yan Qingqiu snapped. “You still owe me. Repay faster and I’d be gone.”
“Ah, right.” Song Qingre summoned her secretary to transfer 500k.
Yan Qingqiu almost refused—the art world seemed rigged against Song Qingre, setting up male lead rescues. She noted the transaction guiltily.
At the restaurant, Song Qingre ordered while Yan Qingqiu itemized costs on her phone.
Afterward, Yan Qingqiu planned to hail a cab—anything to avoid solo confinement with Song Qingre.
Song Qingre checked her watch. “Let me drive you. Who knows what unstable alphas lurk in taxis?”
Yan Qingqiu surrendered. “No talking.”
“Deal.”
Once moving, Song Qingre adjusted the GPS.
“Qingqiu… what’s your scent?”
Yan Qingqiu’s legs weakened. Scent?
The original “Yan Qingqiu” had faked being a scentless beta-alpha. How had she described her nonexistent pheromones?
“No talking!” Yan Qingqiu barked.
She consulted her silent system, useless.
Song Qingre drove calmly, unfazed. Yan Qingqiu covertly retrieved earbuds, creating plausible deniability.
She texted Su Xingjie: Remember my scent? Someone claimed I’m odorless!
Su Xingjie replied instantly: You always said true alphas’ scents are undetectable. Their loss!
So the original “Yan Qingqiu” had been cagey even with her best friend. Odd.
Next time Song Qingre asked, she’d be prepared.
Mid-text, Song Qingre spoke.
“Stop crossing your legs. Bad for circulation.”
“Alpha bones don’t care.”
Song Qingre’s chuckle grated.
Yan Qingqiu squeezed her thighs tighter, aching.
The car stopped.
“Tap water scent?” Song Qingre tried again.
As Yan Qingqiu feigned outrage, Song Qingre tapped the wheel. “Parked.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Just recalling how drenched you were last time.”
Last time’s “treatment” flooded back, Song Qingre’s teasing about her wetness. Yan Qingqiu bit her tongue. “Pervert.”
“Evolutionized into one, apparently.”
The casual admission made Yan Qingqiu squirm. Was that directed at her?
Fumbling with the seatbelt, she missed Song Qingre’s nose boop. “Stay home. No gallivanting.”
The words sounded suspiciously like a threat.
“Go on.” Song Qingre opened her door.
Misinterpreting, Yan Qingqiu slapped her hand away, jutting her chin in alpha defiance—unaware how her blush burned like sunset clouds, how her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Song Qingre nearly laughed. “Qingqiu… tearing up?”
“Joke’s on you—alphas don’t cry—hic.”
Song Qingre leaned in, lips a hair’s breadth away.
“Want to kiss?”
Ten seconds later, the car door flew open. Yan Qingqiu tumbled out, knees nearly buckling in her haste.
Song Qingre’s reaching hand caught only air as Yan Qingqiu fled.
Through the half-open window, Song Qingre drummed the wheel, watching that spirited sprint across the lawn.
Her fingers traced steering wheel grooves.
Was I wrong?
Unlikely.
She’s terrified.
—
Yan Qingqiu barricaded herself indoors, collapsing against the door.
Thank god I ran. Walking would’ve liquefied me!
Post-shower, she lay in the tub, strategizing.
The doctor’s suggestion of toys lingered, but inexperience bred shyness.
This is all Song Qingre’s fault! She stomped on the bathwater, then sighed. Was Song Qingre suspecting her omega status? Today’s groping nearly escalated to gland-kissing…
Her fingers brushed the swollen gland. How would that feel?
Drying off, she texted Su Xingjie:
[Hang out tomorrow? Got a hypothetical, alpha princess gets cursed to become ultra-omega unless she avoids a mysterious bedmate. Survival strategies?]
Su Xingjie: [Marry the bedmate! True love breaks curses!]
Yan Qingqiu choked on her drink. Not helpful.
Su Xingjie: [Alternative: burn all beds + chain the woman. Unless magic spawns a bed…]
Hmm. How to chain Song Qingre… The imagery steamed her brain.
Another round of drinks arrived. Yan Qingqiu’s head spun—apparently, this body couldn’t hold liquor either.
When Fu Ye appeared, playing drunk to lure her, Yan Qingqiu’s phone rant made the bar erupt in laughter at his expense.
“Throw him in the gutter! And keep him away from women unless you want assault charges!”
Nearby, Song Qingre materialized, watching Fu Ye’s pathetic gambit.
As Yan Qingqiu staggered outside vomiting, Fu Ye moved to “help”—only for Song Qingre to intercept, her alpha aura flaring.
“Don’t touch her.”
The slap echoed. Fu Ye recoiled, bewildered by her whiplash from indifference to possessiveness.
“Qingre…”
Ignoring him, Song Qingre gathered the retching Yan Qingqiu, one hand bracing her forehead with surreal tenderness.
Fu Ye stood frozen in shock. As an alpha himself, he recoiled from the overwhelming pheromones pressing down on him. He quickened his pace to intercept them.
But the imagined catfight between rivals never materialized.
Song Qingre shot him a sidelong glance, her usually pale lips now dark and ominous in the dim light. A loose strand of hair framed her face as she seemed to dissolve into the shadows, transforming into something gentler yet more terrifying.
“What do you want?” Her voice was icy.
In that moment, Fu Ye didn’t see the unattainable white moonlight—he saw the moon itself, cold and brilliant, cleaving the night in two.
By the time he regained his senses, Song Qingre had already bundled Yan Qingqiu into the car, slamming the door with finality. He couldn’t reconcile this woman with the Song Qingre he knew.
Just moments ago she had been…
Fu Ye kicked the car seat in frustration. Today’s humiliating rejection would haunt him forever. He seethed at Yan Qingqiu’s insults, at Song Qingre’s indifference.
What galled him most was the growing certainty that these two women had genuinely moved on, with each other.
“When is Yan Fu returning?” he demanded.
After a hushed phone call, the driver put it on speaker:
“Mr. Yan is currently at the National Research Institute. He’s prioritizing the new product launch, rumors say Yan Corporation will collapse without it…”
“Withdraw our funding,” Fu Ye interrupted.
“What? But—”
“Money doesn’t grow on trees for outsiders.” His smile was cruel. Let Yan Qingqiu learn the consequences of her defiance. Without his patronage, she’d come crawling back.
“But the Yan family’s entire investment would be ruined! Our losses—”
“Peanuts.” Fu Ye ended the call. If the Yan’s knew what was good for them, they’d beg for mercy. Yan Qingqiu needed to relearn how to please him.
“Drive!”
As the car started, Fu Ye suddenly shouted, “Wait!”
A futile hope—that Yan Qingqiu might come running after him, that this was all an act.
Instead, Song Qingre’s car left them in a cloud of exhaust.
“Withdraw everything! Now!”
—
Song Qingre didn’t leave Su Xingjie behind, ushering her into the car as well. Su Xingjie remained wary, who knew what this woman might do to a vulnerable Yan Qingqiu?
The alcohol hit hard. Yan Qingqiu fumbled with her seatbelt, slurring about “not wanting to die.”
Song Qingre secured the belt, reclining the seat. Her hand lingered on Yan Qingqiu’s forehead, soothing. When Su Xingjie moved to help, Song Qingre spoke first:
“Miss Su, as an omega, you shouldn’t drink alcohol-sensitive alphas drinking. In an emergency, who protects whom?”
“She used to hold her liquor,” Su Xingjie protested.
Song Qingre said nothing until they reached Su’s neighborhood. “She’s never been able to drink. Next time, refuse her invitation.”
Baffled, Su Xingjie stepped out into the rustling plane trees, autumn’s arrival sudden and disquieting. The departing taillights reminded her, she’d meant to say Yan Qingqiu only drank because Song Qingre had.
At the Yan residence, the butler hurried to prepare hangover remedies.
“Uncle Dong, call Su Xingjie,” Song Qingre instructed. “Tell her we arrived safely.”
Upstairs, Yan Qingqiu remained docile, though her soiled clothes betrayed earlier struggles.
“Can you manage the bath?” Song Qingre asked.
“Hot…” Yan Qingqiu pawed at her collar. At the bathroom threshold, she nearly disrobed before being hastily ushered inside.
After retching twice, she looked up sleepily. “Hurts…”
Song Qingre offered mouthwash, dabbing her lips. When Yan Qingqiu swayed, her gaze landed on the tub—instinct overriding dignity as she crawled toward it with startling speed.
“Water?” she demanded, flopping in.
Song Qingre adjusted the temperature. Yan Qingqiu grabbed the showerhead, drenching herself. “Colder!”
The soaked dress clung to her body as she pouted up at Song Qingqiu. Only after the water cooled did she settle back, arching her neck against the porcelain.
In this unguarded state, a wisp of pheromones escaped—indescribable yet intoxicating, making Song Qingre’s own gland throb.
“Why does Qingqiu smell like an omega?” Song Qingre murmured, trailing fingers through the bathwater.
Memories surfaced for Yan Qingqiu—being forced to apologize after childhood fights, refusing until someone noticed her bloody knuckles.
“Does it hurt here?” that voice had asked, blowing gently on her wounds.
Only then had she wept.
Now, that same tenderness returned as fingers brushed her shoulder. “Tell me?”
The bathwater rippled as Yan Qingqiu struggled. A sharp pain lanced through her skull, a warning.
“Because I’m… a…”
“What?”
Yan Qingqiu’s lips parted. “A ferocious alpha… who sleeps around. Gets omega scents everywhere.”
Song Qingre laughed softly. “Qingqiu, your mouth is so stubborn.”
Her fingertip traced Yan Qingqiu’s lower lip. “This makes me angry.”
The playful tone belied the threat. Yan Qingqiu shivered.
“Don’t be mad…”
Dripping wet, she was all pliant softness—save for that obstinate mouth.
“I understand. You’re just… unconventional.”
“Hot,” Yan Qingqiu complained.
“What’s hot?”
“Lips are always hot.”
Song Qingre’s finger stilled.
For two suspended seconds, their eyes locked. Ripples spread from Song Qingre’s idle stirring as Yan Qingqiu’s gaze turned expectant, encouraging.
But Song Qingre stood abruptly. “I’ll get clothes.”
Yan Qingqiu watched her leave, confused. Why wouldn’t she stay? Before, she’d always sneaked into her room…
The butler arrived with hangover soup. After ensuring Yan Qingqiu’s safety, he left reluctantly.
“Drink this, then I’ll go,” Song Qingre promised.
Back in the bedroom, Yan Qingqiu shoved futilely at the immovable bed. “Throw all beds away… no pain…”
“Come here.”
She crawled to Song Qingre’s feet, tilting her head for spoonfuls of sweet soup.
“You seem sad,” Yan Qingqiu noted between sips.
Song Qingre merely stirred the broth.
Rolling onto the bed, Yan Qingqiu murmured, “Did I hurt you before?”
When no answer came, she added softly, “Sorry.”
Song Qingre’s hand hovered, then withdrew. “Sleep.”
As drowsiness claimed her, Yan Qingqiu pressed a kiss to Song Qingre’s arm, then her own exposed gland.
“Kiss me?” she offered.
—
Morning brought shattered memories. Yan Qingqiu’s head pounded as she stumbled downstairs, throat raw.
The sweet aroma of poached pears led her to the kitchen, where Song Qingre stood in a white shirt and snug black apron, the morning light gilding her shoulders.
Yan Qingqiu’s voice cracked. “Did I… do anything last night?”
The boiling pot bubbled as Song Qingre gazed out the window, back still turned.
“Nothing much,” she said lightly. “Just forced me to kiss you.”
A pause.
“Oh, and confessed you’re actually an omega.”